Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton :: :: University of Virginia Library

Faded relic of the Past,
Formed upon a British “last,”
Can I not, by hook or crook,
For my “composition book,”
Write a page or two from you,
Antiquated silken Shoe?

Ah! I think that I can trace
In thy quiet aged face,
Half a look of grave assent,—
So my Muse may now give vent,
And may see what she can do
With a high-heeled, green silk Shoe.

Let me think; how many years,
Fraught with hopes and joys and fears,
Have there been upon the earth
Since the day that gave you birth?

Say, has not our little world
Five-score times its sails unfurled
For a voyage round the sun,
Since your life was first begun?

Well, then, quite a little age
You have been upon the stage,
And you ought to have a weight
Of knowledge, both of small and great.
Had I been where you have been,
Had I seen what you have seen,
I should know a vast deal more
Of the times and days of yore
Than you now appear to do,
Most un-literary Shoe.

Long, to us, your life may seem;
After all 'tis but “a dream.”
Hear what good old Jacob says:
“Few and short have been my days.”
Yet he lived more years than you,
Little V toed, silken Shoe.

You have been where I have not,
And have seen—I don't know what.
With aristocratic dames,
At the court of good St. James,
You have tripped, nor loth, nor slow,
On “the light, fantastic toe.”

Though I rather think you'd be
Too fantastic, quite, for me.
Borne upon your lofty heel,
Like, I fear that I should feel,
Pisa's famous leaning tower,
Which, I fancy, every hour
Fears lest some untimely breeze,
Sighing through the trembling leaves,
Should its posture, nice, o'erthrow,
And should lay its proud head low.

Well, old Shoe, your glory's gone,
And your work has long been done.
Now, pray tell me where'd you get
Any right to be here yet?
Long ago you should have died,
With your partner by your side.
What can anybody do
With a clumsy thing like you?
Would a single soul in town
Wear you? No. You'd throw them down.
Then don't look so prim and nice,
I really think you need a slice
Of what my aunt calls “humble pie.”
At all events, you'd better try
Cast the proud hope from your soul,
That, although you're very old,
Anybody cares for you,
Superannuated Shoe.

Do you think me too severe?
Well, perhaps I am, my dear,
But my reverence has gone
On a journey to the moon,
Or I'm sure I don't know where
It can be found if 'tisn't there.
It's been “vamosed” all the time
Since I first commenced this rhyme,
And that is the reason why
Such an unrelenting cry
'Gainst you I've made. But now forgive.
You henceforth in peace may live.
So farewell, farewell to you,
Poor old silver buckled Shoe.

Dec. 25, 1849.